For Raizen, nothing had ever felt as peaceful as this moment. Leaving behind the days of wandering through the dungeons of Newt Earth, forgetting the countless battles he fought as an adventurer against monsters, Raizen, now, was simply a retired Dark Elf, over eighty years old. At that youthful age, while his peers sold themselves to the relentless machinery of society, Raizen preferred solitude, nestled within his old loft, steeped in the scent of decaying wood.
In the highest room of the inn, the Dark Elf strode past a rickety bookshelf, gently pulling out a worn, tattered book - its cover nearly peeling away. It was a map of a demonic dungeon in the North, where he had lost two comrades. Flipping through the brittle pages, he chuckled softly before slipping it back into its place, his hand grazing over a cracked, chipped ceramic mask - silent, just like the fallen comrades it once belonged to.
Nostalgia settled in as he leaned against the wooden chair by the window, his gaze drifting across the walls - almost as if, after years, he was finally seeing them with quiet serenity rather than weariness.
"Thirty years, huh," he muttered, his fingers brushing the edge of the wooden table. The rough grain, the small cracks - they had aged, leaving him forever stuck in this youthful state. Here, he had once sharpened his blade on ancient whetstones, scrawled blunt verses into a weathered leather journal, and cursed his neighbor who let out thunderous farts in the dead of night… An entire lifetime had passed - at least for humans - within a space no larger than a horse's back.
Raizen's loft was small, just enough for him to stretch his legs at night yet still feel the comforting presence of the enclosing walls. The scent of old wood mingled with the salty breeze from the distant sea, tinged with the faint stench of the fish market below. The smell wasn't overwhelming; it had seeped into the grain of the wood, woven into the air, creating a quiet, familiar warmth.
His single bed was pressed against the corner, its worn-out mattress still soft enough for him to collapse onto after long days. A small window sat beside it, just large enough to welcome the weak morning light and the crisp, briny winds. As the breeze stirred, it set the makeshift cloth hangings overhead into slow, rhythmic motion - the very things Raizen had once strung up to shield himself from the scorching summer heat.
The room had little in the way of furniture. A small wooden table, its surface speckled with scratches and ink stains - a place where he often sharpened his blades or scribbled fleeting thoughts into an old notebook. A rickety bookshelf overflowing with mismatched books - tomes on magic, ancient maps, a few stray journals left behind by nameless strangers he had picked up from various dungeons. In the corner stood a heavy iron chest, filled with relics from his days of adventure: a chipped dagger, a cracked ceramic mask, and a few magical gemstones that had long lost their glow.
There was nothing grand or spacious about this place, but to Raizen, it was the only sanctuary where he could truly feel at peace. A home where he could forget the years spent wandering, the battles fought for survival, and the chaotic world beyond - where people flung themselves into the endless cycle of life without pause. Here, in his modest loft, he was no longer an adventurer, no longer an ambitious Dark Elf. He was merely a young soul who had chosen to stop moving.
But today might just be the last of that peace. Sipping on a cup of slow-brewed Robusta - the coffee long past its expiration date - he sat beside unfinished pages of a book he had been writing when the tranquility of the afternoon shattered. A thunderous pounding came from the door, accompanied by shrill shouting that stabbed at his sharp ears.
"Old man Raizen! Old man Raizen! Today's the deadline for the rent!"
The echoing voice, paired with relentless banging, made the Dark Elf scowl. He furrowed his brows, downed the rest of his Robusta in a single gulp, and begrudgingly got up to open the door.
"What is it, Meredith? Do you have any idea how badly you're disturbing my peaceful afternoon?"
Standing before Raizen was a human girl, barely seventeen or eighteen, with fiery orange-red hair and a petite frame. Not that her small stature made her any less formidable - Meredith was, after all, the owner of the inn.
"Disturbing?! Don't give me that nonsense! You've owed rent since my grandmother's time, through my mother's time, and now it's my turn! Fifty years, Raizen! Fifty damn years and you still haven't paid up!"
Meredith's furious scream carried through the hallway as she brandished a wooden broom, its feathered bristles thick with dust, pointing it straight at Raizen's face.
Raizen let out a quiet sigh, slipping past the narrow doorway and leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was dull, as if he'd just been shaken awake from a century-long slumber.
"You're mistaken. I remember very clearly - I've only owed rent for… thirty years." He tilted his chin lazily, his tone indifferent, as if the math didn't even matter.
Meredith tightened her grip on the broom handle, her brown eyes practically sparking with fury. "You say that like thirty years is nothing!"
Raizen shrugged. "Compared to a Dark Elf, it's really not that long."
Meredith nearly jumped in rage. "Raizen, I'm serious! If you don't pay up, get out of here! You're not an adventurer anymore - where the hell are you going to find money?! Are you planning to wait until I die just so my own children have to chase you for rent next?"
"Not a bad idea," Raizen mused, nodding absentmindedly, his gaze distant - almost as if he were genuinely considering it.
Meredith let out an exasperated scream, raising her broom as if ready to bring it down on his head. "I swear, I will beat you right here if you keep talking like that!"
Raizen eyed the dust-covered broom hovering before him, then slowly pushed it aside with a lazy hand. "Meredith… do you realize something?" His voice was calm, almost bored. "You're really annoying."
Meredith nearly choked in rage. "Annoying?! The only reason I'm annoying is because you won't pay your damn rent! How in the world have you lived here for this long, you freeloading, good - for - nothing Dark Elf..."
"Alright, alright, I'll think about paying," Raizen cut in, his tone so lazy it held not even a shred of sincerity. He reached for the old coat hanging on a wooden hook near the door, throwing it over his shoulder with little care.
"But right now, I need some fresh air. You're suffocating me."
Meredith stood frozen, mouth agape, her brown eyes ablaze as she watched his retreating figure. "Raizen! I'm not finished with you! Raizen!" Her furious cries echoed through the cramped hallways of the inn, but Raizen simply shrugged, stepping down the narrow, worn wooden stairs without looking back.
Each step he took made the staircase groan, as if lamenting under the weight of a Dark Elf who had long abandoned any real purpose. The narrow wooden hallway carried the scent of dried fish and sea salt, soaked deep into every crevice of the walls. Light and shadow intertwined through the window panes, casting patterns over the cracks in the wooden floor - where, every now and then, cockroaches would scuttle past. Raizen strode past the doors of other tenants, catching fragments of a child's cries and the distant murmur of arguments from somewhere nearby. He pushed open the main door of the inn, and at once, the afternoon sunlight spilled in - warm, bright, and unforgiving, making him squint.
Meredith's shouting gradually faded into the chaotic symphony of the fish market just beyond the alleyway. Vendors calling out their wares, the waves lapping against the shore, the creak of ships docking - all blending into a disorderly, yet lively melody. Raizen let out a long yawn and strolled along the stone-paved road. The sky was clear today, and the ocean breeze was gentle. He thought to himself - perhaps he'd buy something sweet before deciding whether paying rent was worth the trouble.
The seaside town had its own kind of beauty in the late afternoon. Sunlight stretched across the worn rooftops, shimmering in broken patches along the streets. The tang of salt mixed with the air, interwoven with the scent of dried fish, aromatic herbs from roadside eateries, and the aged wooden hulls of ships anchored offshore. Seagulls soared high above, occasionally letting out hoarse cries that blended into the marketplace's restless hum.
Raizen slid his hands into his coat pockets, feeling the coarse, frayed fabric rub against his fingertips - a habit he had repeated too many times, as if, somehow, a few coins would suddenly roll out from the bottom of his pocket. But no. Empty as ever.
"Can't believe the nonsense those High Elves spew in their grand tales… Nothing but dreamers." He sighed.
It had been a long time since the former rank A adventurer had cared about money. Back in the day, he spent it as freely as he breathed - lavish feasts, the finest wines, rare Artifacts he never even bothered to use. But that was the past. The days of glory had long faded, leaving behind nothing more than an unemployed Dark Elf, scraping by in the attic of an old, run-down inn, with a landlady whose patience for him was dwindling fast.
"Damn it..." Raizen muttered, ambling through the market, his gaze absentmindedly sweeping over the stalls.
He had no money to buy anything, yet he couldn't resist stopping in front of a small bakery stand by the roadside. Rows of honey-glazed pastries sat neatly atop a wooden tray, their sweet aroma wafting through the air - enough to make his stomach growl involuntarily. The vendor, an elderly woman with silver hair, smiled warmly at her customers.
That scent, that familiar face - the very same woman he had watched grow older over the years - stirred a buried corner of his memory. Back when he had first withdrawn from the world of adventurers, when his pockets were still heavy with coin and life was still carefree, Raizen had often stopped by this bakery. He'd buy two pastries - one to devour on the way, and another to slip into the hands of Meredith's mother, a woman with a radiant smile and eyes that always seemed to hold unspoken words.
Every time she accepted the pastry, she would thank him with a gentle kiss on the cheek - a gesture of affection Raizen never once found strange. He understood, in a way, the liveliness in her nature - the way she laughed, the way her gaze lingered on him, searching for something beyond mere friendship. But Raizen never reciprocated, not because he didn't care, but because he knew he was not the one meant to fill that void. He only ever wanted to be a friend, a wandering Dark Elf stopping for a brief while in her life, sharing pastries and idle conversations about days long past.
Now, standing before the bakery stall, Raizen felt the weight of his empty pockets and his hollow stomach. Meredith's mother was gone, taking with her those fleeting kisses and that warm smile. He had no money, no one to share with, and even this stall seemed distant - belonging to a different Raizen, a Raizen of the past, from the days when he still believed he could live forever in the golden light of an adventurer's glory.
"Time really spares no one," he murmured, lips curling into a bitter smile before turning away, his steps heavier - as if fleeing the ghost of his own past. He couldn't allow himself to become the kind of failure who stood staring hungrily at pastries he could no longer afford.
Raizen kept walking, mind spinning with ways to keep his lodging without paying—at least, not yet. Meredith was stubborn, but she wasn't cruel. He knew she wouldn't throw him out immediately… at least, not yet. But if he wanted to buy himself more time, he needed a way to soften her anger.
He needed a plan. Something to hold onto his room, to extend his stay—and maybe, just maybe, to make that fiery gaze of hers less clouded with disappointment and frustration. But what could he do? Help clean the place? Make coffee? Defend the inn if it ever got robbed?
Wait.
"Make coffee…"
Raizen looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. His mind wandered back to the stash of expired coffee bags sitting somewhere in the inn. A dry chuckle escaped his lips - A Dark Elf who once single - handedly cut down the demons of Daemonic Celeste's seventy-seventh dungeon floor, now scheming over how to brew coffee to win over a landlady who wasn't even twenty.
Life really was something. But he kept walking. Because if he didn't, he would be nothing but the shadow of a shadow.
"Maybe I should get a job?" The thought flickered to life but was dismissed just as quickly. He hated jobs. The idea of working from dawn to dusk just to earn a few measly coins made him want to throw himself off the nearest cliff.
"Scamming people?" No. If he pushed it too far, Meredith would actually kill him.
"Becoming an adventurer again?" Even worse. He had retired for a reason - he wasn't about to crawl back into those death traps.
"Getting married?" Now that was blasphemy in Raizen's personal creed. Not out of fear of romance, but the sheer chains of marriage - it sounded less like a life commitment and more like a prison sentence.
Raizen stood still, his gaze drifting toward the sea. Out beyond the shore, fishing boats glimmered under the evening sun, drifting across a gold - dusted ocean like something out of a dream. He sighed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, his thoughts wandering just as aimlessly as those ships.
"Maybe I should go knock around a few stupid thugs…" he murmured, lips curling into a faint, amused smirk - an old, familiar kind of smirk.
Yeah. Beating up street thugs wasn't exactly a new pastime for Raizen. He'd been in this "volunteer street - cleaning business" since the coat on his back was still new and he still thought he was the center of the universe.
A few dumb thugs, a well-placed beating - just enough to shake some coins loose - and Raizen had money for food, coffee, or at the very least, a couple of pastries. Simple, effective, and sometimes… entertaining. Of course, not every encounter ended with them surrendering willingly. He remembered a few who had gotten so spiteful they'd whipped out rusted daggers, swearing they'd carve him up. Or that one time, a burly brute begged for mercy, only to return later, lurking at the docks with his entire gang. Raizen had simply shrugged, handed each of them another punch, and gone off to buy some fried fish. They wanted him dead? Fine. Let them get in line. His life was long, and right now, his stomach was louder than any threat.
He rubbed his chin. "Honest work? Sounds exhausting. Might as well squeeze some pocket change out of the city's lowlifes - at least enough to buy something sweet for this empty stomach."
Raizen shrugged and turned his gaze toward the dark alleyways behind the market - the haunts of rats and petty criminals. If luck was on his side, he'd pocket a few coins. If not, well, at least it would be a decent warm - up before Meredith inevitably threw him out.
The Dark Elf stepped into a narrow alley wedged between two rows of ramshackle buildings, their walls peeling and cracked. The air here was thick, heavy with the stench of rotting garbage, blending with stagnant black water pooled in the broken cobblestones.
A weak gust of wind filtered through, but instead of carrying the salty tang of the seaside, it only stirred the musty odor rising from piles of decayed burlap sacks stacked in the corner. The golden sunset outside couldn't reach here, leaving only murky shadows where rats scurried like ghosts. Occasionally, a slow drip echoed from a leaky rooftop, melding with the eerie creak of a wooden sign swaying above a shattered window.
Raizen walked slowly, his boots squelching against the damp stone pavement, gaze wandering lazily. He wasn't irritated, nor was he in a hurry. This alleyway was nothing compared to the places he had set foot in - especially the underground sewers beneath the ancient temple district of St.Ans. Down there, darkness didn't just swallow light; it devoured hope itself. The cursed rats, half-bone, half-flesh, lurked in cracks, waiting to sink their teeth into the throats of anyone too slow to react. He remembered the stench - so vile that it had sent an entire squad of seasoned soldiers to their knees, retching. Compared to that, this alley was merely a shabby playground, where petty thugs deluded themselves into thinking they ruled the shadows.
Raizen almost laughed. He had seen far worse things, and this gathering of lowlifes - at best - would serve as a decent warm-up before he got himself a pastry.
At the alley's end, where the dim glow of a flickering oil lamp cast ghostly streaks across the cracked walls, a group of men loitered. Men, of course - but more accurately, remnants of society: drunks, vagabonds, survivors sustained by cheap violence. They huddled around a battered wooden barrel, littered with half-empty bottles of cheap liquor, filthy cups crusted with residue, and a rusted knife left abandoned - so neglected it seemed no one cared to wield it anymore.
Their clothes were stained and worn thin, tainted by sweat, grease, and darkened blood no one dared ask the origin of. Their hands bore scars, some inked with crude tattoos that looked like they'd been carved by a blind man wielding a blade. One sat slumped against the wall, his tattered shoe split open to reveal his bare toes. Another waved a liquor bottle around, mumbling nonsense no one listened to - except for the occasional half-hearted chuckle acknowledging his ramblings.
Their surroundings mirrored their own disarray: broken barrels stacked in one corner, mildew-ridden ropes tangled into useless knots, and a rusted birdcage dangling from the rooftop - empty, a testament that nothing in this place held the breath of life anymore.
Raizen mused to himself - if this alley were a dungeon, these men would barely qualify as low-level monsters, the kind he used to dispatch with a single kick in his adventurer days. But now, he wasn't hunting trophies. A few coins from their pockets were all he needed to fill his grumbling stomach.
The Dark Elf strode forward, his sharp ears catching fragments of conversation from the group of thugs.
The one with gold-stained teeth, slumped against the ground, spat onto the stone pavement and chuckled. "Last night, I stole a pair of shoes from that blind old man at the docks. Thought he was just some clueless fool, but turns out he had three gold coins hidden under the soles!"
The lanky one with a serpent tattoo took a deep swig of his drink, eyes gleaming. "And me… ha! I 'borrowed' myself a drunk girl behind the tavern. Didn't catch her name, but from the scent, she's from the upper district. Pretty one of those types who enjoy a little bruising."
The bald one, his face streaked with scratch marks, cut in. "Idiots. While you lot were chasing skirts, I swiped a guard's armor after his shift change. Slipped it on, and damn, I looked like an officer! The commoners actually bowed to me, begging for mercy!"
Raizen let out a quiet chuckle, deliberately making his presence known. His tall frame, dark hair tied neatly into a ponytail, and faded black coat gave him an air of worn-out refinement. Amber eyes flicked over each thug, slow and unimpressed - like a noble surveying the poor-quality dishes in a third-rate tavern.
Tilting his head slightly, his voice came cold and sharp as splintered stone. "Quite the night of triumphs, huh? Stealing from a blind old man, terrorizing civilians, getting drunk off cheap liquor and taking advantage of passed-out women. That kind of honor ought to be carved into a monument in the town square."
One of them immediately lifted his head, bloodshot eyes locking onto Raizen's golden gaze. His lips curled into a sneer, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. "What the hell is this? Some pointy-eared idiot got lost?"
Raizen smirked, leaning against the grimy stone wall, arms crossed, dripping with contempt. "Surprised, are you? Thought you'd all have starved to death by now. How the hell do you still have money for booze?"
The group erupted in laughter - not the awkward kind, nor the uneasy kind, but the mocking kind.
"Who are you calling starving?" One of them tapped his bottle against the table. "We may be broke, but at least we're not stuck sipping that bitter sailor powder from the docks!"
*"Yeah, exactly!" Another slapped his thigh. "This guy probably only knows how to drink expired Robusta, the kind that tastes like sewer water - one sip and it'll knock you into next week!"
"Hell, I bet he can't even tell the difference between coffee and mud!"
The alley erupted with laughter - harsh, guttural, echoing through the damp air. One of them even raised an imaginary toast, as if offering Raizen a sip of some foul, bottom-barrel concoction.
A vein twitched on Raizen's forehead. He could tolerate insults, endure being looked down upon, even shrug off threats of murder. But mocking his taste? Turning coffee into some cheap joke? That was an unforgivable crime.
The smirk vanished from his lips. His voice dropped - low, cold.
"Seems like the only thing you lot have left is that foul mouth, huh?"
A burly, scruffy-bearded man shot up from his seat, dragging a few of his companions with him. Another slammed his bottle onto the wooden barrel with enough force to nearly shatter it, his bloodshot eyes burning with hostility.
"You got the guts to say that again?"
Raizen feigned a thoughtful expression, raising a brow. "Did I say something too harsh just now?" He inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly. "Oh, well. I was just wondering… look at the sewage you lot are chugging down. Have things sunk so low that you're forced to drink this kind of filth?"
"You damn bastard!" One of them shot up, fingers clenched so tight around the hilt of his dagger that his knuckles turned bone-white.
The gang moved as one, circling Raizen like a pack of hungry wolves closing in on their prey. Their twisted, rage-filled faces flushed as red as if they'd swallowed burning coal. One of them gritted his teeth, the sound scraping like steel on stone. Another strained his neck, barking out crude curses, veins bulging across his forehead like they were ready to burst. The thug wielding the rusted knife stepped forward, letting out a hoarse snarl.
"You're dead, you pointy-eared bastard!"
His breath reeked of cheap liquor, so strong it seemed as if his entire being was just a walking vat of spoiled alcohol.
The atmosphere in the alley thickened - sweat, sour booze, and the stench of impending violence merged into something suffocating, as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for blood to spill.
The thugs crept forward, slowly tightening their circle. Every footstep splashed dirty puddles across the cracked ground. One spat onto the street, the spit mixing with piss in a murky splash. Another smashed his bottle against the wooden barrel, shards of glass tumbling with a sharp clink.
Even in the midst of the tension hanging thick in the alley, the place still clung to its messy, grimy sense of mockery. A fat rat waddled across a puddle of filth, dragging a fishbone behind it, utterly indifferent to the growling humans nearby. In the corner, a skeletal stray cat leapt onto a pile of decayed sacks, leaving behind a fresh, steaming pile of dung - the stench mixing seamlessly with the already putrid air. Far off, a dog barked incessantly, and soon after, a trickle of yellow urine seeped down the wall, as if marking its territory right under the noses of the thugs.
Raizen glanced at the scene, the edge of his lips curling slightly.
"What a damn alleyway," he mused, hands still tucked in his pockets. But before he could make a biting remark—
BOOM!
A sound like the sky collapsing echoed through the alley, followed by splintering wood, snapping ropes, and panicked human screams from afar. The impact made the ground tremble, sending shards of glass from a shattered liquor bottle tumbling onto the grimy pavement. The rat, startled, bolted into the nearest pile of trash, while the scrawny cat shrieked, fur bristling in alarm.
Raizen froze, his pointed ears twitching, catching every chaotic noise. The instincts of an adventurer - the very ones that had saved him dozens of times in the depths of treacherous dungeons - flared to life.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. He had heard the sound of ships docking in this harbor a hundred times - the creaking wood, the strain of taut ropes, the drunken shouts of sailors. But never like this. Never with the sharp, ominous crack of splintering timbers or the kind of screams that spoke of people fleeing for their lives.
This wasn't just a routine docking mishap. This was something much larger. Something dangerous. Even someone like him had to take notice.
The thugs around him flinched, their anger-warped faces quickly shifting into uncertainty. Rusty daggers, once gripped tight with intent, now hovered midair, as if they had momentarily forgotten their purpose. One of them dropped his liquor bottle - the glass shattered instantly, its amber contents spreading in slick puddles, mixing into the filth beneath their feet. Another instinctively took a step back, his clenched fists slowly loosening, bloodshot eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route.
The violence that had filled the alley moments ago faded, replaced by the raw instinct to survive. The oil lantern, barely hanging onto the crooked wall, flickered weakly - its dim light painting their faces a sickly pale, making them look less like hardened criminals and more like cornered rats.
Raizen stood still, hands still deep in his pockets, his gaze drifting from the gang to the end of the alley, where the faint glow of the seaside town spilled through.
"Damn it," he muttered, his voice dropping low enough that only he could hear.
"Looks like today isn't the day for brawling over pastry money."
For a brief moment, the suffocating, filthy alley seemed small - insignificant. Something was happening out there, at the port. And Raizen knew - thanks to the instincts that had saved him countless times in the depths of dungeons - that whatever it was, he wouldn't be able to ignore it for long.